


Junkrat? More Like Drunkrat!

by filthy_rat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Halloween fun, Pointless fluff, Some Offensive Language, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 05:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12292611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthy_rat/pseuds/filthy_rat
Summary: At the yearly Overwatch Halloween party, you somehow volunteer yourself to babysit the human explosion, Jamison Fawkes, who is absolutely wasted. The guy's about 160 pounds soaking wet, alcohol's going to have a huge impact on him.





	Junkrat? More Like Drunkrat!

**Author's Note:**

> let's just assume everyone puts aside their hostilities for Halloween, okay? okay.

Halloween has always been your favorite holiday. The costumes, the candy, the parties, the scary movie nights -- there’s nothing about this time of the year that you don’t enjoy. Well, maybe you don’t enjoy bobbing for apples. What’s supposed to be so fun about sticking your face in a bucket of cold water? That one you’ll skip.

This year, you’re especially proud of your costume. It’s just your normal clothes, but you have a sign around your neck that says ‘Nudist on Strike’. Even Gabriel thought it was funny. At least you think he did... He was laughing at your  _costume,_  right?

You, Winston, Lena, and Angela are enjoying a lively conversation about the latest episode of  _Dog Detective: Ghost Hunter Edition_ , when a long, lanky arm materializes out of thin air and throws itself around your shoulders.

Jamison Fawkes, affectionately known as Junkrat. At least, you  _think_  it’s Jamison. The owner of the arm is wearing a truly unsettling burlap mask that covers their entire face, with a smiling stitched-up mouth and mismatched goggle eyes that glow. A tail of what looks to be hay peeks out from the top of the mask. You glance down at the rest of the costume. A pair of too-large overalls, painted on stitches crisscrossing their arms, and they’re not wearing any shoes. There’s hay stuffed in every possible crevice of clothing, and you notice a trail of it leading up to where you now stand.

“Can I interest any of you cunts in somethin’ to drink?”

This is definitely Jamison.

Everyone merely stares at him in unamused silence, disgust painted all over their faces. Angela looks especially ruffled by his sudden appearance. Only you smile, but you cover it with your hand. As the silence drags on and becomes uncomfortable, irritation settles in your chest. Elitist pricks, treating him like garbage. He’s trying to be friendly.

“Yeah, sure, I could use a drink,” you say loudly, and, ignoring everyone’s shocked expressions, you turn and lead him away.

When you’re out of earshot, Jamison lifts his mask a little so you can see his face. His cheeks are flushed from excessive drink and you can smell alcohol on his breath already. Suddenly you realize that he’s about 160 pounds soaking wet and already  _hammered._  Oh boy. More alcohol is definitely not what he needs right now. Why do you get the feeling that you’ve somehow just volunteered yourself to babysit this human explosion?

“Let’s... get you some water,” you say, and he offers a goofy, toothy smile. He looks  _so pleased,_ it’s hard not to smile yourself.

“Real bonza costume, mate!” he says, giving you a thumbs up but swaying drunkenly on his feet. You didn’t think it was possible, but his grin grows even wider.

A blush creeps into your cheeks. “Thank you! I was pretty proud of it this year,” you say, looking away from him for half a second to pour a glass of water. “Let’s go find somewhere to -- Jamie?”

He’s. Somehow disappeared.  _Oh shit._

Setting down the cup, you turn in a circle. Where the hell had he gone? You look down at the floor. There’s a trail of hay leading away from you and into the crowd. Quickly, you follow it, gently pushing through the throng of people. Twice, Jesse tries to stop you with his country charm, all flirtation and winks, but you politely turn him down. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened to Jamison. Or if Jamison happened to someone else...

Eventually, you find the end of the hay trail. It’s led you to Jamison on all fours in an empty room, attempting to coax a terrified cat out from underneath a bed. At least he’s not  _fighting_  someone, like you had feared. Or setting up explosives in the bathroom, like you had also feared.

“Ah, c’mon, I ain’t gonna hurt ya!” he’s saying plaintively as you step into the room. With a smile on your face, you watch him reach under the bed. The cat hisses and he hastily withdraws his arm with a pained yelp, shaking his hand. The fact that he didn’t use his mechanical arm to reach in is somehow the most  _Jamison_  thing you’ve ever seen.

“I think she’s scared of your mask,” you say, and he jerks upright in shock. Once he realizes it’s just you, he sits on the floor, knees apart. The mask stares blankly up at you with its creepy glowing eyes.

“Oh… yeah…” he says, and you hear an unmistakable sniffle. His shoulders droop and he tries to wipe his eyes but his hand just smacks the mask’s face instead. “...Ow.”

“...Jamie?” you say gently, and kneel in front of him. The cat couldn’t have scratched him that badly, right? Slowly, like one would approach a feral animal, you pull the mask off his face.

There are tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. With large, sad eyes, he stares at you, sniffles, and wipes his nose on his forearm. With a kind smile, you pull a tissue from the pocket pack you always carry (always prepared), and gently wipe his wet cheeks and eyes. You produce another one and press it into his palm. With a loud, almost comical sound, he blows his nose, wads up the used tissue, and tosses it carelessly over his shoulder.

“I just wanted to… Everyone’s always… ” he says in a tremulous voice, unable to properly articulate himself. He hiccups. Shit, he’s  _really_  drunk. You’ve never seen him such a mess, and it looks like he’s the kind of drunk who feels every emotion all at once. Poor guy.

“They’re assholes,” you say, dismissively waving your hand. “Think they’re better than everyone. They even make  _me_  feel bad about myself sometimes.”

“ _Cunts_ ,” he snarls, sudden venom in his voice. As if he never even  _heard_  of the word ‘sad’. He lurches forward, braces his palms on the floor, and tries to will his clumsy limbs to cooperate with his drunk brain.  Eventually, he gets to his feet, wobbling dangerously. “I’ll fuckin’ fight ‘em, I don’t give shit --” He starts taking unsteady steps towards the door.

Uh oh. Hastily, you stand, hurry in front of him, and brace your palms against both of his shoulders. For a moment he continues forward, pushing against you stubbornly, and holy  _shit_  he’s way stronger than he looks. Your feet slide back on the carpet several inches.

“Wait, wait, wait!” you say desperately, and he comes to an immediate halt. With the sudden lack of an opposing force, you pitch forward and your face smacks right into his chest. His maniacal giggle makes your entire body flush.

Huffing, you jerk away from him, cheeks red, and snatch up his discarded mask from the floor. “Look, let’s just go enjoy the party okay? You and me.”

“You and me?” he echoes, cocking his head to one side. Slowly, he smiles, big and toothy. You catch a glimpse of his two gold teeth. “Okay.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, and the pair of you rejoin the party.

The rest of the night is very much a blur. Every few minutes of sitting, Jamison gets restless, and the moment you look away, he goes running off. Twice, he almost drowns bobbing for apples and you have to yank his head out of the water (“I was fine, sweetheart, we Aussies have a naturally large lung capacity…”). He picks a fight with Lucio over who gets the last pumpkin cupcake and you have to intervene (“Lucio, let him have it, I’ll buy a case of them tomorrow okay?”). He scares the absolute shit out of you by bursting into tears when you offer to share your bowl of popcorn with him during the scary movie marathon (“Sorry, sorry, he’s really drunk, guys…”).

He kisses you, just once, just for a moment. You’re not entirely sure it was even on purpose, to be honest. It’s clumsy and he initially misses your mouth by just an inch and he tastes like a campfire, but… you let him. His lips are unexpectedly soft. Then he accidentally slops ice-cold cider down the front of your shirt and the moment is lost. He mumbles apologies, red in the face.

Finally,  _blessedly,_  he passes out in your lap, limbs askew and gently drooling on your knee. As the rest of the party winds down and the guests either find rooms or leave, you are seated on the large, comfy loveseat, Jamison draped across your legs and snoring loudly. You wave goodbye to those who pass. Some give you shocked stares, others just smile and wave. Roadhog hesitates when he comes across you, considering what to do about his friend, but in the end he simply walks away and leaves you.

Eventually, you are alone. Exhausted but exhilarated by the party, you look down at the dozing Jamison in your lap and can’t help but smile.  _What a goof. He’s going to have shitty hangover tomorrow._ Absently, you run your fingers through his untameable hair, plucking out stray pieces of hay. He mumbles in his sleep.

“No pancakes please, but pass the Vegemite...”

Under your breath you snort out a laugh. All things considered, this was a pretty good Halloween… You wonder if he likes  _Dog Detective: Ghost Hunter Edition._


End file.
